The Black Hag's Wedding Band
by Iced Blood
Summary: History is nothing but a catalog of human atrocity; a list of names and a pile of bodies. Even so, there are acts which defy description, that cannot be recorded. Events so bloody that they can only be buried. But how long can a crime stay hidden? How long before that blackest of black marks is reborn? And how many casualties will the vengeful dead demand as a sacrifice?
1. Of Time and Tolerance

_**A disclaimer: this is not taking time away from my other projects. It's already written. It's BEEN written for a long time. Some of you who stumble across this might even recognize it. End of disclaimer.**_

_**Hello, there. It's midnight o'er here for me, which feels appropriate given the purpose of this particular story. Right now it's a short story, specifically. It's also an experiment. I've wanted to write a horror story for a long time. I've been writing for 15 years, and I've pretty much always been a fan of horror in various forms. I've never combined the two.**_

_**So, this.**_

_**Those who know me will be the opposite of surprised to note that the focus of this tale is on the Kaiba brothers. Iced Blood is not a man interested in breaking from tradition. Not after this long.**_

_**I promise, though, that this one's got a bit of a different flavor.**_

_**Okay. I think I'm done. I'll let everybody speak for themselves now.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

"I'm not so sure this was a good idea, you guys."

"Maybe we shouldn't have bothered calling him. I mean, it's not like he's going to _believe _us, anyway."

"He's so narrow-minded, it's not even . . ."

"_Guys_!"

They trailed off like small children, caught after lights-out at summer camp by an overzealous counselor. The parts of the small children were played that night by Yugi Mutou, Joey Wheeler, Tristan Taylor, and Téa Gardner.

The counselor, in no uncertain terms, was an effervescently furious Seto Kaiba.

Mokuba Kaiba stumbled up the stairs that led from the Turtle Game shop up to the apartment shared by the Mutou family. He looked exhausted. His eyes were half-closed, and he didn't say a word when Yugi greeted him. He was only upright by virtue of the fact that he was leaning against his brother, who was as straight and stolid as an obelisk.

"Allow me . . ." Kaiba murmured slowly, ". . . to understand something. You. Call _me_. You find my _personal _number, use it _without _my permission. You wait until after _midnight _to do so, _insist _that I come here, never mind that I might be in the middle of something. No, what's important is that you screech in my ear for fifteen minutes about how _damned _important it is that I join your little sleepover. And not only do you _not _find this rude, but you have somehow found a way to blame _me _for it. Do I have all this right?"

On any other day, at any other time, this would have been Mokuba's cue to play peacemaker, and say something to the effect of: it's rude to antagonize people, too, so why don't we just listen to them, since we're here already? But as it was, the black-haired young Kaiba was barely able to harness enough energy to stay on his feet, and he wasn't far from losing that.

"Why did you drag Mokuba here?" Téa asked, with reproach leaking into her voice. "He looks so _tired_. You could have—"

"Oh, well, since you asked _nicely_," Kaiba snarled, "why don't I tell you? We weren't at home, which you might have realized if you'd bothered to let me _speak_. We've been at a convention this weekend, and Mokuba has had a total of about five hours of sleep in the past three days. We _were _on our way back, when you decided to call. You know, if only I'd thought to tell you I was busy, that it was important that I get home. Oh. Wait. I _did_!"

"Nii . . . sama . . ." Mokuba mumbled. "Not . . . s'loud."

Kaiba drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and forcibly calmed.

"I'm sorry," Yugi said, in a soft voice. His eyes were meek. "You should . . . take your brother home. I wasn't thinking. We'll . . . tell you later."

"_Oh_," Kaiba snapped, his voice considerably lower in volume, but no less in venom, "isn't _that _accommodating of you? Am I being given permission to leave, Your Imperial Highness? Well done. Let's ignore whatever business he has until he's already taken the extra time to come here, _then _decide it's wasted! Sorry we kept you from going home and letting your brother go to _sleep _for the first time in twenty hours for absolutely _nothing_."

While his brother continued to seethe, Mokuba occupied himself with shuffling zombie-like to a nearby chair and finding some way to collapse into it without loosening his teeth. He curled up into the fetal position and lay his head on one arm of the cloth-covered recliner, letting his feet dangle over the other. He blinked heavily, trying vainly to keep his eyes open for at least a handful of seconds.

He fell asleep almost instantly.

"Since when do you do what we say, anyway?" Tristan dared to wonder. "If you're so pissed, and so convinced it wasn't worth it to come here, why the hell are you _here_? Just so you can bitch us out for it?"

Kaiba's eyes flashed like spasmodic road flares. His throat worked, and smoke actually seemed to curl out from behind his teeth. Of course it was _really _just his breath, meeting the cold. But all the same . . .

"Tristan," Yugi put in, before Kaiba could put his indignant rage into words, "let's not do this tonight. Kaiba, if you're going to stay here, then I'll tell you what we need to talk about. We might as well do it now." He breathed deeply, and put his hands onto the gleaming golden artifact hanging from his neck. The Millennium Puzzle glowed, then hummed, and Yugi was no longer himself.

He was _sharper_.

"We are in danger," the _other _Yugi declared without preamble. "Mortal danger. And your brother may be the most vulnerable of all of us."

The fury that had taken up residence in Kaiba's entire being sloughed off of him, and was replaced by keen interest. His sea-storm eyes narrowed to slits. ". . . I'm listening."

Joey and Tristan were seated on a small couch; Téa Gardner had claimed a matching ottoman. Yugi, now in his confident form, lounged on a chair next to her. The furniture was situated around a small wooden coffee table, on which was set the artifacts of a sleepover: empty snack bags, soda cans, mugs, and plates.

To Kaiba's left was a small, standard-definition television set into a wooden entertainment center. A _Magic &amp; Wizards _tournament played on the screen, but none of the denizens of the Mutous' living room were currently paying it any heed.

There was one more chair in the room, but Kaiba didn't claim it. He crossed his arms, and waited for Yugi to speak again. The ancient king, in turn, seemed to be studying Kaiba's face, unsure of what to make of whatever information he found there. Finally, he decided to be diplomatic, and said:

"I do apologize for not thinking of your business before calling you, but—"

Kaiba cut him off: "If this situation is so important that it _actually _warrants my presence here, then don't apologize. If it's trivial enough that you have to _justify _my being here, then this conversation is over."

Téa pursed her lips.

Joey said, under his breath, "Why'ncha make up your fuckin' mind?"

"He is no ruder than we," Yugi interjected, before Kaiba could snap out a response, "for keeping him, and Mokuba, any longer than necessary. It's late, and just _looking _at the poor boy is cause enough to realize we should keep this short. Please, refrain from starting an argument on moral superiority. This is hardly the time for triviality. Both of you? Please?" He eyed Joey and Kaiba in turn.

Kaiba simply raised an eyebrow.

"It's about Bakura," Yugi said.

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**Like a couple of other projects I've done recently, each update to this tale will be a single scene. Some will be short, some will be long. This one does its best to set the stage.**_

_**A couple of points: one, for those unaware, "Magic &amp; Wizards" is the original name, given in the manga, for the Duel Monsters card game that so dominates the anime. I've found myself particularly fond of it for various reasons.**_

_**Two, the title of the story proper. As befitting any story involving Ryou Bakura, which this one does, the Millennium Ring will feature prominently.**_

_**The Black Hag's Wedding Band is a name that I've given said Ring. Ancient artifacts typically have names attached to them. Not just their "proper" names, but nicknames.**_

_**The Puzzle, for example, I've taken to calling the Labyrinth of Princes. The Rod? God's Finger. You get the idea. It's a bit of flavor, that's all.**_

_**The horror isn't showing itself just yet, but trust me. I know what I'm doing.**_

_**I hope.**_


	2. Of Man and Motive

_**Thank you to everyone who gave the first installment a shot. This story is far from what I would call complete, but the first full leg of it, I would say, is complete. That's what I have here, and what I intend to show you over the next week or so.**_

_**This installment is longer than the first, and lays down some more groundwork. I have a hard time just jumping into a story. The base has to be built, first.**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

For the past few months, ever since Mokuba had attended Yuma Bakura's funeral—an act which, no matter how many times Seto ran through it in his mind, made no sense; Mokuba hadn't ever been particularly friendly with Ryou, and had never even _met _the boy's father—the Kaiba Estate had been party to a nearly-live-in houseguest.

Ryou Bakura was soft-spoken, socially awkward, and had a difficult time dealing with anyone. This much, Seto had learned by observing his behavior in the few classes they'd shared during his final year of high school. But after Ryou had started talking to Mokuba on a level that constituted actual friendship, and not just casual politeness, Seto had learned a few more things about him.

To wit, he had only seen his father a handful of times in a given year, when the man had been alive, and that Amane—his sister—had died in a car accident some years back, one which had _also _claimed Ryou's mother. The number of people about whom Ryou Bakura cared who were still around, or still _alive_, was cataclysmically small.

Given such a history, it was no real surprise that Ryou spent as much time as he possibly could outside of his own home. For a while, he had haunted this very apartment, with some combination of Yugi, Joey, Tristan, and Téa.

Ryou seemed to get along with Mokuba a lot better than he did with this group.

Seto found this only slightly surprising.

When Yugi didn't continue his sermon after a long moment of silence, Seto rolled his eyes and said, "While I am certain that _it _is well-known to you and your court of officials, _it _is an unfathomable ambiguity to one of such lowly peasantry as myself. Given this, I am woefully unable to properly quiver in mortal terror at _its _implications."

Yugi quirked a small smirk, while his flunkies took up the job of acting offended. "A lack of sleep seems to sharpen your wit, Kaiba," he said. "I'm fully aware that an explanation is in order. Permit me, I beg, to _put _it in order so that I can deliver it to your standards."

"One might have thought you would have constructed your sales pitch long before now," Seto replied. "It's been brought up before that my tolerance for your continued existence, to say nothing of your definition of a threat, is rather lacking."

"_God_, Kaiba, do you _always _hafta be such a—"

"Oh, do raise your voice a bit higher," Seto all but raged at Joey, through clenched teeth. "We wouldn't want Mokuba to actually get any _rest_, would we?" His eyes narrowed again. "Let us set _this _on the table, since your ability to get to the point is being sacrificed for the sake of a better story: you started this off on an even more horrendous note than usual, not only by deciding that I am unworthy of the common human decency of _waiting for daylight_, and not only by attacking my character the very moment I walked through the door _after you insisted that I come here immediately_, but also by, yet again, placing me into the part of the villain without any trace of consent. Since that seems to have become my eternal role in your little post-modern fairytale—never mind the fact that you're constantly spouting off the necessity for, and healing power of, forgiveness—I have decided that it would be simpler for all of us if I just continue to act the part. So, if you're expecting any _politeness _in this discourse, prepare to be disappointed yet again by my conduct. But just remember: I'm playing the role you've laid out for me: the villain. The soulless rich bastard. The glacial prick."

Yugi glared at his friends, as more than one of them began to speak. "That's _quite enough_ on this subject," he said, sharply. He looked legitimately annoyed with his band for the first time that Seto could remember. "Unless you have any input that might prove _actually beneficial _in convincing Kaiba to listen to us, I'd prefer it if you let me handle the talking. Our aim is his cooperation. How is it, may I ask, that you intend to do that by insulting him? _Do not _answer that. It was a rhetorical question."

He looked back at Seto.

Seto uncrossed his arms and slipped his hands into the pockets of his cream-colored slacks. Téa's mouth hung open, Joey and Tristan stared, and Seto had to admit—at least inwardly—to being intrigued. Engaged, if not convinced. He said, "Ryou is at the heart of this apparent threat of which you intend to inform me. How?"

"He's losing control, and he's going to break before long. And when he does, I don't think there's a single one of us who will be prepared for the damage he's capable of leveling."

Like children chastised by a favored parent for making too much noise at a formal dinner, Yugi's crusaders went silent and subdued. Joey glowered at Seto beneath hooded eyes as if to blame him for his friend's irritation; Téa looked hurt, betrayed; Tristan was distantly neutral, as though he were suddenly thinking of something else entirely. Like he'd taken himself somewhere far away from here, where the world still made sense.

Mokuba babbled wordlessly in restless sleep.

"I've no doubt that your memories of him are, for the most part, innocent and unassuming," Yugi continued. "I believe that he and Mokuba have been getting along rather well, haven't they? That's one reason I wished to bring you into this discussion. Honestly, though, I'm glad that the little one is asleep. I'd prefer _you _tell him about this. You know him better than we, and are much less likely to . . . inadvertently upset him."

"How would you upset him?" Seto asked dryly. "It's not like you're objectifying a friend of his, speaking about him as though he's some sort of malignant cancer just moments away from metastasizing. _That _would be ridiculous!"

Yugi sighed. "I . . . understand how this must seem to you. I do. But I'm serious when I tell you that Ryou Bakura represents an unstable, _dangerous _threat to your lives right now. I must advise that you at _least _keep Mokuba away from him."

"Even if I _were _inclined to separate my brother from one of the only _real _friends he's ever made based solely upon your advisement," Seto said, "I'd expect something more substantial than what you've presented so far. If you had something _real _to convince me that Ryou is a danger to my brother's life, we would be having a completely different conversation right now. As it is, all you're proving to me is that you have a woeful misunderstanding on how friendship works. Apparently you think it involves browbeating your peers into agreeing with you. Say, about how dangerous they are. Or how terrible they are at gaming." At this, Seto glanced at Joey and raised a slow eyebrow.

"If this is about Duelist Kingdom again, _you—_" Téa began.

"_Shut up_," Seto snapped, in such a sharp voice that she actually obeyed. "Listen to me for once in your life. Do you know what a sad commentary it is, that _I _know how to treat people better than you do? This isn't some attack on your persons. It's a fucking _wake-up call_."

He loomed over the small group like a monster that haunted their dreams. "Ryou speaks rather candidly of you. Did you know that? He mentioned just how _often _you two in particular downplay Wheeler's accomplishments in the dueling arena. He seems to think you understand him better than I do, because it's supposed to _encourage _him."

No one responded to this. Joey's throat worked, and his eyes seemed to bulge.

Seto continued: "Do you recall, for example, a time during which he dueled against a young man by the name of Devlin? Using my staging area, at my park?" He waited. Again, there was no reply. "I watched that match. I know every move. I know _every card_. Wheeler played quite well, actually, and I invite you to contemplate how well he must have done to have _me _say that. He lost by _dumb fucking luck_. But that didn't stop _you _from biting and snapping at him, did it? From almost _literally _kicking him when he was down. As though losing to a clown in eyeliner and leather pants wouldn't be embarrassment enough."

Joey looked stunned beyond understanding; Seto looked ready to chew glass.

"Allow me to gift you with a piece of advice." The elder Kaiba forged ahead. "Negative reinforcement is a tool used by inept parents and enemies. _Not _equals. _Not _friends. Have you ever noticed that _I _talk to Wheeler about his dueling prowess rather _starkly _similarly to the way you do? When I do that, I'm _trying _to discredit him. I'm _trying _to discourage him. Are you? Is _that _what friendship means to you? If so, then I can only imagine how you've treated Ryou. You know, the one you never even _talk_ to unless you suddenly need someone to run a roleplaying campaign over summer vacation."

"Kaiba." Yugi's voice came in like a cresting wave. "I'm not going to pretend that you don't have a point, here. But this _isn't _about moral superiority, as I've already said. This is about a boy who's being used by an evil that none of us have the power to combat. I'm not talking about the Ryou Bakura that you know." He sighed again. "You believe me, the _confident _me, to be little more than a mental projection. A . . . purely fictitious imagining on Yugi Mutou's part to compensate for his pitiful self-esteem. Correct?"

"I believe I called it his lack of a _spine_, but your version covers it well enough."

"Whatever you think of me, think the same here. Call it dissociative identity disorder, if you like. It's an apt enough way to describe it, in any case. But unlike myself and Yugi, Bakura and his other . . . self, do not share a body willingly. This _other _is the one I'm talking about, Kaiba. He's getting bolder. Stronger. And unless I miss my guess, he's finally getting impatient."

"You're telling me that Ryou Bakura is like Malik Ishtar. Some trauma in his past woke this _thing _inside him. This psychological malignancy."

"I'm telling you that he's like _me_. But fine. Yes. You wouldn't believe me if I tried to be more specific, so we'll go ahead with that understanding."

Seto's face twitched. "Continue."

"This dark part of Bakura is patient. He's become quite adept at hiding himself, and that's likely why you haven't seen the signs. He knows you're a smart man, Kaiba, and certainly you have a more scrutinizing eye than most. But he knows where his true allies are, so I'm sure he's done his best to hide himself from the both of you in particular."

"Whatever it is that this alternative personality wants, you infer that we are obstacles."

"I do. Me, you, Téa, Joey, Tristan. Mokuba." Seto's eyes flashed to his brother. "I think we—that is, the four of us—are in more danger than either of you. Particularly Mokuba. He won't want to waste such a valuable game piece, after all. Mokuba is young. Impressionable. He'll try to _use _Mokuba, turn him over to his side. But, as I'm sure he will never succeed in turning Mokuba away from you, I hesitate to consider what he might do as an alternative."

"It feels _wrong _to talk about Bakura like this, like he's a criminal," Téa put in.

"Yeah," Tristan agreed. "It's _not _Bakura. Bakura's a great guy. It's the thing in his ring. If we could just get rid of the _ring_!"

"Oh. Wondrous." Seto shook his head. "The Millennium Items again. Yes, Taylor. Let's not consider the innumerable traumas of his childhood. Let's lay the blame on a golden ring. Tell me, was it forged by Sauron? Shall we band together as a fellowship and cast it into Mount Doom? Does Ryou _have your sword_?"

Yugi let out a snicker in spite of himself. "It's not quite so romantic as that, I'm afraid."

"You know, it'd be nice if you took this more _seriously_," Téa said, "since you're so quick to point fingers at _us_."

"I take this _very _seriously," Seto replied, with ice in his voice that chilled the room. "What I _don't _take seriously is the fact that you continue to deflect from the real issue. I don't care _what _caused this, if _this _even exists. However, by placing the blame on an object, you are summarily ignoring the idea that another suggestion is even possible. Which, funnily enough, is precisely what you seem to think _I _am doing."

"Let's not get into this debate just yet," Yugi said. "Think a moment on the phenomena you've already seen that your belief systems refuse to permit, Kaiba. The Millennium Items are not a laughing matter."

"If this second personality exists—_if_—and if it proves to be a danger to my brother's life, of which you are taking great pains to convince me, which makes me wonder if you aren't just looking for someone to do your dirty work for you . . . then I will deal with it. If you called me here expecting that I would help you come up with a game plan to save him from an evil ring, then I'm going to disappoint you. Again."

"When you say _deal with it_," Joey said suspiciously, "you're talkin' about killing him. Aren't you?"

"And if someone told you that your _sister _was in danger of being murdered in her sleep by her own best friend, what exactly would _you _think to do?" Seto replied, in a voice barely louder than a hiss. "Do I _look _like a murderer to you? Even if we look at things from your prism, wherein I despise all people and have no particular motive to help Ryou as a person—it _can't _be that I just have trouble dealing with _you _idiots—do you honestly think me such a trigger-happy sociopath that I would consciously kill one of my brother's friends without doing everything in my power to find an alternative? Do you think I hate Mokuba _that _much?"

Joey's eyes narrowed, but he didn't respond.

"_Oh_," Yugi said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. "I'm _so_ glad we brought that up. It helped further the conversation _so _much. Thank you, Joseph, for your indomitable wisdom in further antagonizing him. We will do whatever we can to save Ryou Bakura. We _all _will. But if the choice comes down to killing him, or allowing him to kill someone else, then what do you think _he _would want us to do?"

Joey flinched.

"Just because there are only two people in this room right now who are _capable _of killing Ryou Bakura, does not mean that there are two people in this room who _want _to kill him."

"Two?" Téa asked obliviously.

Yugi stared at her, his eyes unfathomable, and Seto found himself impressed with his rival—honestly, unabashedly impressed—outside the dueling arena for the first time.

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**I've been trying very hard not to be too hard on the gang lately. Honest. I'm not in the business of character-bashing. The issues I've brought out here have to do with some very real problems that I have with their conduct at certain points in the series.**_

_**Téa and Tristan (Anzu and Honda) take great pains to chip away at Joey's (Jou's) confidence and sense of accomplishment, throughout Duelist Kingdom and particularly when he faces off against Duke (Otogi). This latter incident really bothers me, because in a show about friendship and unity . . . these two can be pretty awful friends.**_

_**I've lived with friends like them. It almost destroyed me.**_

_**I don't hate Téa. I don't hate Tristan. But some of their actions in the anime, specifically certain comments directed at Joey, are not only cruel but entirely unprovoked. There is no justification for that.**_

_**If Seto hadn't called them out on it . . . I certainly hope that Yugi would have. Eventually.**_

_**I'll get off my soapbox. That is, as they say, neither here nor there.**_

_**I couldn't help myself.**_


	3. Of Symbols and Substance

_**I've never written Ryou Bakura extensively before. I'm not even sure if this counts as fixing that particular issue, but it's a start. It is my fervent belief that no one was hurt more by Millennium magic than Ryou.**_

_**I feel bad, perpetrating that particular issue with this story.**_

_**Here's what I can say with surety, though: if you've followed my work for any amount of time, then you know what I believe. The Kaibas aren't perfect. They're dangerous, and sometimes they're just as (if not more) biased than I am.**_

_**But when they decide someone is worth their time . . . they both will stop at nothing, they will move Heaven and Earth, for them.**_

_**In this particular tale, Ryou Bakura is one of those people.**_

_**Let's find out why together, shall we?**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

Mokuba tumbled out of his chair.

In the sudden quiet that followed Yugi's declaration and subsequent staring contest with his audience, the sound of the black-haired boy _thumping _onto the floor seemed to echo. He groaned, disoriented and confused, as he rocked up into a sitting position and stared around with his eyes half-open. He blinked several times, looking so pitifully exhausted that Téa actually let out a tiny coo of sympathy and looked like she wanted to hug him.

Seto's lips curved into his first (facsimile of a) smile in two days, and knelt down. "Come here, Mokuba . . ." he murmured gently—he was a different person now—and lifted his brother into his arms. Mokuba went easily, wrapping his own arms around Seto's neck and resting his head on his brother's shoulder. Seto strode over to the couch, and glared down at Joey and Tristan. "_Move_," he commanded, back in character, and Joey looked ready to argue until Yugi shot him a look fit to set him on fire.

The couch was vacated. Seto set Mokuba down, and removed his trench coat and suit jacket. He folded the jacket and tucked it under the boy's head, then covered him with the coat. Seto stepped away as Mokuba turned on his side and curled up; like before, he was asleep in seconds.

"Listen to me," Seto said, more calmly than before but still obviously on the warpath. "I do not murder indiscriminately. I am not a yakuza, nor am I nearly as corrupt as you apparently assume me to be. It is not, and never will be, my intention to knock on Ryou's door, wait for him to answer, and put a bullet into his eye. Nor do I intend to torture this apparent 'other self' out of him, or whatever else you may have conjured up in your imaginations." He crossed his arms. "Ryou Bakura has been a guest in my home quite often lately, and I would venture to believe that I have a decent idea of how to interact with him. In fact, given your collective behavior tonight, I would highly suggest that you let _me _handle things."

"I understand," Yugi said, before the others had a chance. "Thank you, Kaiba. For your agreement. I must warn you again, however, that there is more to Bakura than you know. Please, when and if the times comes that we can assist you, permit us to do so."

Seto sighed. "The offer is well-meant, I'm sure. But right now, I'm not particularly interested."

The elder Kaiba swept over to the younger, picked him up, and turned away.

Seto was halfway across the room when a voice called out: "Wait!"

It was Yugi, back in his normal state. Seto turned to look at him as he approached. Yugi was reaching into a pocket of his pajama bottoms. He said, "Hold on. Please. I have something. Something . . . I wanted to . . ."

"Oh, c'mon, Yugi, you're not seriously gonna give him that, are you?" Joey asked. "They don't _believe _in this stuff!"

"I know," Yugi said. "I'm sorry, Kaiba. I just . . ."

He shook Mokuba's shoulder. "Mokuba . . ." he said, almost sang, gently as a mother waking her toddler; it was perhaps this gentleness that kept Seto from breaking Yugi's wrist. Mokuba groaned, shook his head, and even went so far as to pull his brother's trench coat over his head. "Mokuba," Yugi tried again. "Please. Just for a second. I have something for you."

Mokuba lowered the thick cloth just enough for one unfocused eye to poke out from beneath his curtain of hair. ". . . Wha? Wan' sleep. Go 'way."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Yugi produced a small necklace from his pocket. It was a positively archaic rendition of a woman on one knee, hands outstretched, with great feathered wings spanning about two-and-a-half inches beyond her body. On her head was a small throne. In one hand was a symbol that Seto recognized as an ankh; he couldn't make out the object in her other hand. The tiny artifact, obviously Egyptian, looked like it was made of bronze. A thin black cord poked through a tiny hole laboriously cut into the throne.

"This is Isis," Yugi said, and Mokuba looked slightly more interested. "She was the wife of Osiris. Goddess of motherhood. She's one of Egypt's most popular goddesses. People worshipped her all throughout Egypt's history. Even when Rome conquered it."

Mokuba brought out a hand and touched the necklace.

"She was Horus's mother. You know Horus?"

Mokuba nodded.

"Her name means 'she of the throne.' See that little throne there, on her head? She's really powerful. If you're in trouble, she'll protect you. Here. Wear it, okay? It's light. You probably won't even notice it."

". . . For me?"

"Uh-huh. My grandpa gave it to me. But I have my puzzle. So this is for you. 'Kay?"

". . . 'Kay. Thanks."

Yugi smiled. "You're welcome. Good night, Mokuba. See you later."

Mokuba slipped the necklace over his head, and promptly fell unconscious again.

Seto's face was unreadable.

Yugi shrugged. "It might . . . help."

Seto closed his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, didn't speak, then turned on his heel and descended.

Yugi stared at the staircase long after his rival left the building.

When he turned back to face his friends, his eyes were the color of blood.

Again.


	4. Of Kings and Kindness

_**This is a bit of a short one, but it drives a certain point home.**_

_**This is an older work, back when I had a lot of grievances with the gang, and while I don't exactly disagree with my younger self's beliefs, I do think I may have gone a bit too far.**_

_**Maybe I'm wrong. I'm not sure. But I do feel like I should reiterate: I don't actually hate the main protagonists of Yu-Gi-Oh! I really don't.**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

"Before you speak," came a declamatory rumble from the mouth of a high school senior, "you will _listen_ to me."

Joey, who had been about to do just that, choked on his tongue and gawped.

"You will remember," the _other_ Yugi continued, having taken control again, "that while _we_ have all seen, firsthand, the evil that resides within Ryou Bakura, neither Kaiba nor his brother have. He has _absolutely no reason _to believe us, and every reason _not _to. The spirit of the Ring no doubt planned it that way from the beginning."

Yugi watched as his friends sank lower in their respective seats and didn't respond.

"Ryou Bakura is little Mokuba's best friend. You heard Kaiba say that, the same as I did. Don't try to deny it. The spirit is going to take full advantage of that. Kaiba believes only in evidence he can respect. Most modern men do. His evidence of the evil inside Ryou is purely anecdotal. There isn't a court in this world of yours that would take our side in this."

Joey sighed heavily. "He's still a bag of _dicks_," he muttered.

"I won't deny it," Yugi said. "But, despite that, he has ever been instrumental in a great number of dangerous situations. World-shattering situations. So, we would do our best to curb our tongues. We need all the help we can get, and Kaiba's resources may prove vital. Is this clear to you all?"

"Basically you're asking us to pretend he's made of sunshine and rainbows," Tristan muttered.

"You want us to act like Mokuba," Joey put in.

Yami's eyes narrowed. "I want you to act like _adults_. Our aim is to save Ryou Bakura. If biting your tongues against childish criticism will do that, then yes. I expect you to do it. And I expect you to do it _without _acting like it's noble. _Not _arguing with people you don't like isn't a sacrifice. It has another name, a far more accepted name: _politeness_."

"Kaiba might have gotten the memo on that one," Téa said. "Why should _we _treat him any better than—"

The sudden spasm of fury on Yugi's face stopped Téa short.

"I understand that you have a hard time understanding this. You're barely scratching the surface of adulthood. I, with my thousands of years of experience, should be patient with you. But allow me to place this in simple terms for you: by being polite and gracious to Seto Kaiba, you stand a chance at saving Ryou Bakura by association. By _not _being polite and gracious to Seto Kaiba, you stand a chance of him deciding to do everything alone, thereby dooming not only Bakura, but _both _Kaiba brothers, to a horrific death." He looked up at his friends. "If it will prevent three funerals, could you _please stop __**bitching**_ _about Kaiba's manners_?!"

He stood up and left for Yugi's bedroom without waiting for an answer.


	5. Of Books and Bloodshed

_**The first scene that truly qualifies, in my mind at least, as suspenseful. While "suspense" is not the same as "horror," the two are linked in several ways, and so I suppose I've opted to combine them—to the best of my ability—in the telling of this story.**_

_**Ryou makes his first appearance. It isn't exactly what one might expect.**_

_**Or maybe, just maybe, it is. And maybe that's the problem.**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

Seto walked around the side of the Turtle Game shop, to the small parking lot tucked in back. A light clicked on as he walked toward his vehicle; he tried mightily to contemplate what he'd been told with sincerity—any threat to his brother's safety, imagined or otherwise, had to be investigated thoroughly—but there was more than just doubt worming its way into him right now. Fatigue, too, had cast its hooks in him.

Ryou Bakura . . . dangerous? It seemed unfathomable.

"'. . . Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.'"

Seto flinched violently. Whirled around.

As if summoned by the very thought of him, Ryou Bakura came sliding into the light. Except it _wasn't_ Ryou Bakura. There was nothing resembling softness here, or gentleness, or anything else that defined the boy's character in Seto's mind. None of Ryou's meekness was on display tonight. Even his _hair _looked wrong, somehow.

A wide grin spread out on Ryou's uncharacteristically sharp face, like the blade of an alabaster sickle. "Good morning, Kaiba," he said, and Seto flinched at how guttural, how fundamentally _sick _that voice sounded. "It _is _morning . . . yes?"

Seto straightened. "Ryou," he said, because it was all he could conjure.

"That's what they call me," Ryou said, still with that smile. "Or, should I say, that's what _you _call me."

Seto's eyes narrowed. "A coincidence, meeting you here. Mutou and his flunkies were just discussing you. I suspect they still are."

"Yes, I suspect you're right. What did they say about me?"

Seto was used to Ryou by this point. Used to his mannerisms; his quaint, almost archaic politeness. His crippling shyness. It had taken the white-haired boy weeks just to look _Mokuba _in the eye on a consistent basis, to say nothing of Seto—largely considered the most intimidating man in Domino City. Yet here he stood, staring Seto down without the faintest trace of nerves.

On the contrary, a miasma of malefic intent nearly forced shut Seto's throat.

"Nothing of immediate consequence," Seto said, eventually.

"Mm. It does seem as though the discussion has bored your brother to sleep." Ryou chuckled, and sauntered forward. "They always look . . . pitiful, when they're asleep. Don't they? Children, I mean. So helpless. So _trusting_. Imagine having that sort of security."

Seto didn't respond.

Ryou reached around, and removed a paperback book from his back pocket. _The Road_, by Cormac McCarthy. Ryou lifted it and said, "'He'd brought the boy's book, but the boy was too tired for reading.'" He chuckled again, softer this time, and tucked the small volume into the bundle of cloth currently serving Mokuba for a bed.

Seto leveled Ryou with a searching look. Ryou answered the unspoken question: "He lent it to me. Have you read it? Perhaps you should. Your brother seems quite fond of it. Maybe it reminds him of someone." That sick, evil grin returned.

Seto offered a flicker of a glance to the book. "I don't make a habit of reading fiction," he said.

"Ah, well. To each his own. I think you might want to consider making an exception, though. It would make your brother . . . quite happy, I think." Ryou pulled back Seto's coat—Seto didn't have a free hand to block his advance, and when he tried to take a step back, he found that he couldn't. His feet were rooted to the concrete. They both looked down at Mokuba's face. The young Kaiba's expression was soft. Peaceful.

Vulnerable.

Seto, by contrast, was frozen with sudden, inexplicable repulsion. He was left to glare soundlessly at his brother's friend and wish futilely for a weapon that he'd—foolishly, recklessly—left at home.

Ryou drew in a sudden, sharp breath as his hand touched the tiny bronze Isis, gleaming in the lamplight on Mokuba's chest. The hand flinched away, as though burned; Ryou's eyes, twinkling with dark amusement only moments before, hardened.

He scowled.

But then he laughed. "She who seeks shelter for the weak. Queen of Heaven. Star of the Sea. She who knows the orphan." Ryou gave a mock salute, as he turned away from the Kaiba brothers and walked back into the deep shadows of the night.

As he vanished from view, Seto heard Ryou's voice, amused and infuriated at the same time, float back to him:

"You're smarter than you look, Seto Kaiba."

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**The two quotes from Yami Bakura (I call him Bakari), the ones involving "gunmetal light" and "the boy's book," are quoted from the early sections of The Road. I read bits and pieces of it at the bookstore, while I was drafting this. It seemed just theatrical enough for our resident psychotic spirit to do, quoting a book like that well past midnight while stalking someone.**_

_**As to the names that Bakari gives to Isis, those are all attributed to her. I found them sifting around the intar-webs. Again, they seemed appropriate.**_


	6. Of Lies and Long Mornings

_**Safe to say, I think, that I was trying to inject some mystery into the story, too. Hence, this chapter. I'll be honest with you: I plan my tales in terms of scenes. It isn't often that I bother to question whether or not the tone of a given chapter matches up with the theme of the story itself.**_

_**I tend to just go with my instinct, and hope that said instinct does right by me.**_

_**It usually does.**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

On the first day of his summer vacation, Mokuba Kaiba didn't wake up until he'd tried for half an hour to ignore the glaring sunlight through the window. He kept his eyes closed, though, for a while longer; he groaned wordlessly, and rolled over on his side.

But once he was awake, he couldn't help but notice the soft, unmistakable whir of the fans in his brother's computer. The boy's eyes opened slowly, and the first thing he saw was soft, baby blue fabric obscuring the lower half of his vision. Blinking heavily, Mokuba realized after a long while that it was a hand-crocheted blanket.

Mokuba was home, on the Kaiba estate, in his brother's office. Even though the last thing he remembered, barely, was falling out of a chair at Yugi's house. Seto's old blanket (the closest thing resembling an heirloom in the current Kaiba family, unless you counted the Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation) fell into Mokuba's lap as he sat up. He was lying on Seto's daybed, against the wall opposite his brother's desk. Like all the furniture Seto kept in his private rooms, it was purely functional. There was a kind of Spartan elegance to it, though, and as simple as the thing looked, it _had _been rather comfortable to sleep on. Mokuba stretched, groaned, and swung his legs out in front of him.

Upon lifting the blanket from his lap and looking down at himself, Mokuba groaned again; he was in the same light blue jeans and black Swordstalker t-shirt that he'd been wearing for the past two days. He reluctantly ran a hand through his hair, finding it a matted, knotted mess. He looked over to his left and saw his brother, seated at his desk, studying something.

". . . Morning, Niisama," Mokuba ventured, and blinked in surprise when he watched his brother flinch.

Dropping the document in his hands as if he'd suddenly found it on fire, Seto turned. He gave a slight, crooked facsimile of a smile. "Hey, imp. New hairstyle?"

Mokuba replied with a lopsided smirk of his own. "Ha. What's that?"

Seto blinked. He looked down at the papers on his desk. Even as groggy as he was, Mokuba could tell that his brother was thinking. _Fast_. Seto looked nervous; Seto Kaiba _never_ looked nervous. "The beta for _Havoc _isn't going as well as you anticipated, kiddo. The testers don't seem fond of your one-chance-per-week policy on raid bosses."

Mokuba's smirk sharpened in focus. He said, "They should get better, then."

Seto chuckled. "I agree, personally. But a tweak in mechanics may be in order, considering just how few of them are managing to progress. Keep in mind, we want to sell this product as _recreation_, not a job. And unfortunately, if it has an immediate reputation of being . . ." he glanced down at the papers as though quoting from them, "'soul-crushingly difficult,' then I'm not entirely sure how many subscribers we can expect."

"Weren't _you _the one saying most MMOs are too easy?" Mokuba asked suspiciously.

"Comparing our target demographic to me, or to _you _for that matter, isn't exactly fair." Mokuba grinned; no matter how old he got, when his Niisama praised him, he glowed with pride for hours. "A compromise? As many attempts as necessary for the lowly mortals unable to reach _your _esteemed level of skill. Certain rewards—titles, costume pieces, mounts—for those who can. Sufficient?"

Mokuba half-pouted. "I _guess_."

"We'll talk to Brian about this." Seto gave his brother an appraising look. "Clean yourself up. Use a brush on that mop. You look like an extra for the next _Blaire Witch _sequel." Mokuba stuck his tongue out at the back of Seto's head as he turned back around. "I saw that," Seto said.

"No, you didn't."

Mokuba stood up and left the room, not quite conscious of the fact that he was dragging the old blanket behind him, held loosely in his left hand like he was a _Peanuts _character. He exited his brother's sanctuary into the second-floor hallway.

Years ago, before Seto had risen to the throne of this kingdom, the office in which Mokuba had spent the night had been entirely off-limits, and the adjoining bedroom had been somehow worse than that. It had been their father's private chambers, the mysterious Inner Sanctum of Master Gozaburo, where mortals feared to tread.

Mokuba himself had only made the mistake of trying once.

He didn't remember much about his biological father—this had held especially true at five years old, when the _concept _of fathers was somewhat lost on him—but what little Mokuba could recall amounted to this: when you had an Important Question, you asked Papa. Or, at least, you did when Nii'tama was busy, and Nii'tama was always busy. So little Mokuba had shuffled into Gozaburo's office to see if he might not learn how to write his name in Japanese.

People thought Seto's signature glare was frightening. Mythic, even. A few called it the most frightening sight on earth. Those few had the blessed luck of never having met the man who'd taught it to him.

But Gozaburo was dead now, and after his funeral one of the first things Seto had done was move his possessions—sparse as they'd been at the time—into Gozaburo's chambers. His computer, his desk, his reference books, a large binder full of potential products, and those few works of fiction that _didn't count_. All this went into the office. Seto's clothing went into the bedroom.

And now, Seto spent his nights in the same space as a man he'd hated.

Maybe he found it amusing. Mokuba didn't know.

But once Seto had moved, Mokuba had decided to emulate him. Move up the chain of command. So _he _had moved into _Seto's _old room. And it was this room he entered now, for the first time in four days.

A small smile graced his still-tired face when he saw that someone on the cleaning staff had ignored one of Seto's strictest rules—No One Cleans Mokuba's Room but Mokuba—and tidied it up for him. But the smile didn't last very long.

Mokuba frowned, and he had never looked more like his brother, as he tossed the blanket at the foot of his bed and started to work at the tangled mess of his hair.

He wondered, a little more than idly, what those sheets of paper in his brother's office _really _were.


	7. Of Misdeeds and Messages

_**A step back into the supernatural this time around.**_

_**I wanted to figure out just what sort of cruelty the Spirit of the Ring preferred to use.**_

_**I'll say this. He's inventive.**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

Earlier that morning, when Mokuba had still been asleep, a soft knock came at Seto's door. Such a soft knock, in fact, that Seto almost didn't hear it.

His eyes flicked over to the door, and as he rose to his feet he looked down at Mokuba. The boy was still fast asleep, wrapped snugly in the old crocheted blanket their mother had made for him in the final months of her pregnancy. He looked peaceful.

Seto smiled.

When he opened the door, however, the warmth fled his face. Vincent Zika, a high-ranking member of the Kaiba Estate's security team, stood there in the hallway, an envelope in one hand while he rubbed his subtly graying beard with the other. When he saw Seto, he bowed his head. "My apologies, sir, for disturbing you. We, ah . . . found this." He lifted the envelope. "Nailed to the front door."

Seto scowled. "Somebody made it past the gates, across the grounds, and _nailed this _to my door without anybody stopping them?"

Vincent flinched. ". . . Yes, sir."

"Well, what _is_ it?"

"It has . . . ah, symbols on it." He handed the article to Seto. "We looked around a while. Lee says they're hhieroglyphs. He says it reads 'Sutekh.' Or . . . however you pronounce it."

Seto's scowl deepened. "The Egyptian god of chaos," he muttered.

Vincent nodded. "That's right, sir. I thought you hated mythology."

"I do. That doesn't mean I don't _know _it. You don't know who sent this." It wasn't a question. "Find him. Her. Whatever." He looked up from the envelope. Vincent stiffened. "_Go_."

"Sir, are you sure you want to just . . . shouldn't we _test _it for . . . ?"

"No." Seto shut the door. The tiny images, scratched in black ink, could be nothing _but _Egyptian hieroglyphs. Just like the _last _time he had seen text from that ancient graveyard, which he had no business being able to read, Seto could read them perfectly. Without ever having researched the cursed things, he knew that these symbols spelled out a name.

Sutekh. Set. Of course.

Seto fell back into his chair, cast a quick glance at his brother, and sighed as he checked the backside of the envelope. Nothing. He opened it, and found two sheets of white copy paper folded inside. The handwriting was messy; a nearly indecipherable scrawl.

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**Good MORNING!**_

_**I would ask if you SLEPT well but you didn't sleep at all did you? Easy enough to GUESS you're an insomniac. Or did I actually SCARE you? That can't be it can it? Not you. Not the GREAT Seto Kaiba. The GREAT Seto Kaiba isn't scared of anything. Even your FATHER didn't scare you did he? Not REALLY.**_

_**I envy you. You're FEARLESS. It's something every HUMAN wishes he could be. It's FREEDOM. Absolute freedom. To know you would be able to face ANY event with courage and TENACITY. You can do that CAN'T you? Yes you can. Yuki Sasaki's golden boy can do ANYTHING. I don't remember MY mother. Do you think that's why I can't be fearless like YOU?**_

_**I know FEAR. Fear is an old FRIEND of mine. It keeps me sharp. It keeps me ALIVE.**_

_**You know I wonder whether you aren't truly FEARLESS after all. Is anyone REALLY? Maybe the difference is you know what to DO when you're afraid. What to USE and how to use it. It's inspiring. You're inspiring. I wonder what you've LEARNED what you know that lets you do it. I'll have to keep a CLOSE watch on you I think.**_

_**Just in case SOMETHING scares you. Just in case . . .**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

"Morning, Niisama."

Seto was not one to flinch, especially at the sound of his brother's voice. Perhaps it was the two hours of sleep he'd gotten since leaving Domino City four days ago. He didn't think it was this note. He didn't _want _to think it was this note.

A sick joke. He was sure of it. A sick, voyeuristic joke.

Seto cursed himself as he stared down at the sheets that _had _been in his hands, but were now on his desk. Turning, he tried to smile for his brother; he didn't quite succeed, which probably made it look more natural on his face than he'd intended. Wonder of wonders. "Hey, imp," he managed. His voice, at least, was normal enough. "New hairstyle?"

He could tell that the younger Kaiba, even with sleep still clouding his mind, didn't quite believe the nonchalance in Seto's voice. Of course, he wouldn't. Mokuba had learned how to read people; Seto himself had taught him.

_Mokuba _knew Seto didn't flinch, either.

Seto didn't like lying to his little brother. The very idea sickened him. But what was he supposed to say? He wasn't even sure what this letter _meant_. He wasn't sure if it had anything to do with Ryou Bakura and his apparent psychotic break. He wasn't sure if it had anything to do with the cryptic, apocalyptic warnings of Yugi Mutou. But he was able to put together enough, and realized that looking his brother, point blank, and saying "One of your friends told me that one of your _other _friends is a raving lunatic last night, and I think this letter that I got this morning proves the point" wouldn't cut it.

How could Seto just . . . take Ryou Bakura away from Mokuba? Ryou was someone Mokuba got along with better than almost anyone else. Ryou was someone who helped the boy with his homework when Seto was too busy, someone who kept him company when Seto was working late, someone who took him to the movies and out to lunch and to the library, and all those other places that Seto so rarely had time to visit.

And besides . . . Mokuba helped Ryou, too. Ryou, who barely managed six words per conversation out in public. Ryou, who retreated into himself whenever the slightest thing went wrong, and often only found comfort in scripture. Mokuba had done more to break Ryou out of his self-induced introversion than his other friends ever had, simply by _understanding _what it felt like to be alone.

Splitting that partnership was entirely out of the question.

Seto couldn't do that. He _wouldn't _do that.

So, owing to all of these thoughts and a thousand more, when Mokuba asked his brother what he was reading, Seto lied.

It wasn't a _bad _lie. Testers _had _been calling Kaiba-Corp's latest game a horrendous sort of challenge. He _had _been looking over preliminary reviews and impressions for a week now, and the documents on his desk right now, beneath the mysterious letter, attested to that. It wasn't _that _much of a lie.

But the very moment Mokuba was out of the room, Seto berated himself. "Don't think like that, you blundering idiot," he snarled at himself. "Sniveling won't solve a damned thing. You lied to him. You _swore _you'd never _fucking _lie to him. And you just did."

Seto groaned, and looked back at the letter.

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**. . . I figure out what it is that would REALLY get under your skin.**_

_**It was sweet you KNOW. Keeping him NEARBY. Sitting him down on that sleek little daybed TUCKING him in with your mother's blanket. Not something people would EXPECT you to have you know. I'm sure people assume you only have THE best of everything that you would have your bedcovers custom-tailored.**_

_**Very sweet. One of those nice IDYLLIC Norman Rockwell kind of pictures. How you made so sure he was comfortable even STROKED back his hair and whispered goodnight. Even though he couldn't hear you. So literal so logical but you DID that. Shows your HUMAN side. The ICE PRINCE has a heart after all. But of course WE knew that already didn't we? Did you take after your MOTHER? You didn't pick up your parenting skills from either of your FATHERS after all did you? Not really Daddy of the Year material were they?**_

_**But of course you learned SOME things from them didn't you? So in the end I guess they served a PURPOSE. In the end we ALL serve a purpose. I wonder what yours is. What mine is. Do you ever think about that? I think you do. Maybe too MUCH.**_

* * *

.

* * *

Seto scowled, and very nearly crumpled up the top sheet of paper and tossed it away. However, instead he slowly, slowly, set it down on his desk. He wasn't sure why, but some intuition told him to keep it. He picked up the second sheet.

There was less written on this one. Only a few lines.

They very nearly stopped his heart.

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**Mokuba really seems ATTACHED to the blanket your mother made for him**_

_**The one he THINKS belonged to YOU?**_

_**I wonder how UPSET he would be if someone TOOK it from him**_

_**If someone WALKED into his room and grabbed it from his BED**_

_**Right out from UNDER his nose**_

_**While he's in his BATHROOM wondering why you LIED to him**_


	8. Of Neurosis and Necessity

_**Seems like my version of Dark and/or Yami Bakura is being well-received so far. This pleases me greatly. Let's see what else he has planned for our favorite siblings.**_

_**I'm sure everyone will be fine.**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

On his feet and halfway across the room before his mind caught up to what he was doing—any semblance of logical thinking thrown aside like so much trash—Seto didn't realize the errant stupidity of the situation until he'd already made his way across the hallway and had his hand on his brother's bedroom door.

He stopped.

". . . What the _fuck _am I doing?"

But asking that question didn't do any good, because instinct had taken over. Even though none of it made sense, he knew he had to check. He had to be sure. There was still a secular explanation for this, and it amounted to something that he couldn't ignore: someone was spying on his baby brother.

Seto entered the boy's bedroom, unable to stop himself.

The shower in the adjacent bathroom was running, and Mokuba had turned on the radio. The room was pristine; the bed was made, the desk organized, his floor vacuumed. All the usual debris had been cleared. Sunlight shone in through the window on the other side of the room. Below that window was a two-level bookshelf, where Mokuba kept his favorite books and comics. The ones he always had to have within arm's reach. Seto spied a small gap on the top shelf. The McCarthy novel belonged there. Seto recalled that the book was still in his office, sitting on his desk.

Seto ran his eyes over the rest of the room until, almost begrudgingly, he was forced to take in the fact that his mother's blanket was sitting on the edge of the bed, mocking him.

And all of a sudden, Seto knew: when he looked inside his brother's bathroom, the only thing he _wouldn't _find was his brother. He wouldn't see anyone. The water would be running down the drain of an empty tub; there would be a folded towel on the toilet and a set of clothes on the sink, and no sign of Mokuba anywhere.

Panic welled in Seto's body like a living thing.

He nearly threw himself at the bathroom door, and had a stranglehold on the knob with one hand as he _slammed _his other hand onto the surface when he realized that he was still holding the letter in that hand. Clenched into a crinkled, misshapen hourglass by his fist, it sat there. Like the blanket, mocking him.

He stared at it.

For reasons he would never understand, Seto leaned back, smoothed out the offending article, and looked at it again.

On the back of the second page, where once there had been absolutely nothing, he saw writing.

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**Are you sure you want to BURST through the door like that SETO?**_

_**How exactly to you INTEND to explain that without SCARING him?**_

_**He's going to have enough to DEAL with anyway**_

_**CONSIDER the embarrassment**_

_**Imagine having his big BROTHER rush into his bathroom while he's naked**_

_**A bit paranoid and INVASIVE of you don't you THINK?**_

* * *

**.**

* * *

Seto dropped the thing like it had bitten him.

Stumbling back, he whispered "What the _hell_?" without hearing it, and when he blinked, he half-expected the new message to disappear. He hadn't slept in four days; this could only be a hallucination. But it _didn't _disappear. It remained obstinately there as he stared at it.

He waited for the hallucination to leave, and some part of him idly realized how sad it was that he _wanted _to be hallucinating.

Reaching down, Seto retrieved the letter and slowly ran a thumb over the words that had just rendered him dumbfounded. Black, wet ink smeared at his touch.

". . . Impossible. _Fucking _impossible."

But then . . . had anything to do with Yugi Mutou and the thrice-damned Millennium Items _ever _been possible?

Seto's breath was suddenly much harder to pull in. He felt his heart rate rising. No. No, this wasn't how he was going to handle this. He wasn't going to embarrass himself like a fucking soccer mom worried about anthrax in the sugar bowl. There was an explanation; he just didn't know it yet. This was mental sleight-of-hand.

"The fucking thing was in your hand," he whispered to himself. "How the _fuck _did somebody write this message? It was you. You're the only person who could have written this." He stupidly checked his pockets for a pen, and didn't find one.

Seto closed his eyes, deciding to ignore impossible questions. He still had questions that _had _answers. He shoved the phantom missive into a pocket and glared at Mokuba's bathroom door like it had slighted him in some way. Something was wrong here, and his brother—somehow—had been implicated. Time-tested tradition told him that he couldn't be passive, or indecisive, when Mokuba's safety was in question.

Most parents thought: "Things like this never happen to _my _kids." Seto knew how stupid and short-sighted such thinking was, and it was a flash of indignant defiance that made the decision for him.

Then he realized there was no way to explain this. How was he going to just invade Mokuba's private space without a reason? The boy wasn't _six_. He didn't need Nii'tama to wash his hair for him anymore. This room, and its adjoining bathroom, was Mokuba's sanctuary. True, Seto had the _right _to enter this space without permission, but Mokuba wasn't young enough not to wonder _why_, nor was he immature enough not to deserve an explanation.

Seto had already lied once this morning; he refused to lie again.

And yet, what would he say, then? The truth made no sense. "Sorry, kid. Just checking to see if any of your friends sneaked into your bathroom to murder you. No? Everything good? Okay. I'll just be going, then."

Goddamn it!

Seto heaved a sigh, and forced himself to slow down his thinking. Any moment now, Mokuba would turn off the water, step out of the shower, and Seto would be forced to explain himself. He would either have to lie again, or look like a raving lunatic.

"You could show him the letter," Seto muttered. "Just show him." Then, immediately afterward, he said, "Shut up," and opened the door.

"_I'm not the same as yesterday_," a soft voice crooned from the radio. "_Oooh . . . It's hard to explain how things have changed, but I'm not the same as before_." Seto reached over and lowered the volume, so that the snapping drums and skittering guitars blaring from the tiny speakers wouldn't interrupt him.

"Mokuba," he said, without the faintest idea what he intended to say.

The curtain shifted, and Mokuba popped his head out, hair slicked back and coated with a layer of shampoo. He frowned curiously. "Niisama?"

"Making breakfast," Seto blurted out suddenly, somehow able to make it sound natural. "What would you like? French toast? Pancakes?"

Mokuba's eyes lit up, not the faintest bit suspicious, and his face split with a wide grin. "French toast!"

Seto nodded. "Order up," he said.

"Thanks!" Mokuba sang out.

". . . _And I won't surrender quietly_," the radio declared as Seto turned it back up. "_Step up and watch me break down_!"

Seto didn't let out his breath until he was back in the hallway.

"You're welcome," he whispered.

* * *

**.**

* * *

_**Shhh. Don't tell anyone. The radio was playing a Thousand Foot Krutch song. "E for Extinction," specifically.**_

_**I'll show myself out.**_


	9. Of Myths and Mothers

_**This one goes back to something with which I'm slightly more comfortable, where the Kaibas are concerned. That is to say, brotherly bonding.**_

_**Seems an appropriate subject, given that I have such a candid tendency to torture these two at every given opportunity.**_

_**I'm sure they'll be fine.**_

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**.**

* * *

Seto was in the kitchen, gathering dishes, when Mokuba walked in.

The young Kaiba had tried laboriously to braid his hair, but hadn't quite managed it—which was a nice way of saying he'd bungled it entirely. He sat at the table and angrily brushed out his dripping wet mane, and looked surprised when Seto took the brush from him. Seto took a dish towel, dried Mokuba's hair a bit, and quickly worked it into a perfect three-strand braid without a word. This done, he strode back to the counter and began setting various ingredients around himself as though he'd done nothing out of the ordinary.

"Where did you . . . ?" Mokuba began.

"Watching our mother," Seto said shortly. He didn't see the surprised look on Mokuba's face. The desperate gleam in his grey-violet eyes. "She usually left it down, but she always braided it on formal occasions. When I was younger, I thought to grow my hair long, like hers, so that she could teach me. I eventually picked it up."

Mokuba grinned. "_You _wanted long hair?"

Seto glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "Is that so surprising?"

A decisive nod. "_Yes_."

Seto smirked. "Well. Our illustrious patriarch did not approve of such things, anyway."

"Did Otou—he made you cut it?" Mokuba asked, sounding upset. He still did that. Every so often. He always caught himself when he made the mistake of referring to Gozaburo Kaiba as their _father_. He always felt guilty. But the man's rules were not easily forgotten.

"I was to keep my hair at a respectable length, befitting my status as a scion of the Kaiba legacy," Seto said. He was currently cracking eggs into a measuring cup full of whatever culinary potion he used to cook his brother's favorite breakfast—the elder Kaiba refused to reveal his process, though Mokuba had asked him at least four hundred times over the past handful of years.

All Mokuba had been able to figure out so far was that it involved powdered cinnamon and vanilla extract. Maybe.

"He never made me cut _my _hair," Mokuba said indignantly as his brother checked the oven, the skillet on the stovetop, and started gathering pans and racks. Whenever Seto cooked, it looked like he was preparing to build a Rube Goldberg machine to do it for him. He insisted that every little piece was necessary.

Even Connolly, the Kaibas' chef, wondered at the master's methods sometimes.

"I convinced him not to force the issue," Seto said vaguely. "You always liked your hair. You had to be persuaded to let anyone even trim it. More than once, I had to bribe you."

Mokuba was silent for a moment. Seto walked over to the refrigerator and removed a package of link sausage—Mokuba's favorite side-dish. The elder Kaiba flicked his eyes to regard the younger, realizing that Mokuba was torn between wanting to smile and wanting to scowl. Seto lifted his prize with a questioning sound in his throat, and Mokuba nodded. The decision was made: the boy smiled.

". . . How long was Mom's hair?"

There was reverence in Mokuba's voice, which afforded Seto a rare smile of his own. Mokuba had never known his mother; she'd died mere hours after his birth. But in deference to the respect and admiration that his brother so clearly had for her, Mokuba had found something even more mysterious and mythical than the woman from whom he had been born; something that may or may not have ever existed, like unicorns or angels.

Seto's role model.

Mokuba's every memory of his brother—and there were a great, _great _many—painted him the same way: as a self-sufficient leader. A survivor. This was a man who had _learned _from Gozaburo Kaiba, but had never looked up to him. Even before Seto had learned the truth of the man's character, when he was nothing more than a world-class chess player and sometime-philanthropist, Seto had not looked up to his example. Seto looked up to _no one's _example. He relied only on his own power.

Sometimes, at his most vulnerable, Seto would lean on his little brother. But these times were rare, and they never lasted long. Seto never _let _them last long.

Yuki Yagami held an honor that was nothing short of awe-striking in the eyes of her younger son. She was, had been, and would ever be, the only person to whom Seto looked for protection.

Seto's smile, soft and subtle, widened. "She kept it at her waist," he said. "You take after her. Your eyes. Your hair. Your smile. All inherited from her." Mokuba touched his bottom lip. "Her hair was never as thick as yours . . . but when she was young, you might have passed for her twin."

Mokuba, taking this as a great compliment, beamed.

"I may have an old photo album in my office," Seto murmured. "I'll have to track it down."

"Did she teach you how to cook?" Mokuba asked suddenly.

"She had a few recipes under her belt," Seto said. "But for the most part, I am what the scholars of old call 'self-taught.'"

Mokuba continued to make small talk as his brother prepared their morning meal. Seto, for his part, was much more accommodating than usual. His answers to Mokuba's various questions were much more involved than his usual grunts and single sentences. Never one to question good fortune, particularly as it applied to his brother, Mokuba kept the conversation going with a fervor and enthusiasm that surprised even himself.

His boisterous mood was only slightly dampened when he realized the _reason _Seto was being so open with him: he was wearing the same slacks, shoes, and shirt that he'd been wearing the previous day. He'd removed his jacket and tie, and he'd rolled up his sleeves, but Mokuba knew what Seto's lack of a completely new outfit meant—he hadn't slept. At all. When Seto woke in the morning, he immediately took a shower, then got dressed.

This prompted another sobering thought: for the past year, he had taken to dressing almost exclusively in "business attire." Gone were the flashy, rock star trench coats of his youth. Mokuba could hardly even remember the last time he'd seen Seto in anything but a tailored suit. The elder Kaiba still wore trench coats, but he preferred simplicity and elegance to the studs and flair of his time on the tournament dueling circuit. It was with a small pang of dismay that Mokuba realized he would never see his brother wear the sharp white coat he'd worn during his first—and most popular—tournament.

Battle City was long gone.

Mokuba had picked out that coat personally as a birthday present, and he knew that that afforded it a certain significance. Seto simply didn't wear it anymore. That didn't mean he didn't _have _it. Mokuba tried to tell himself that this wasn't a surprise. There were untold numbers of outfits Seto had purchased for _him_, that he didn't wear anymore. Was it so different? Seto still wore the locket Mokuba had made for him. He never took it off, in fact.

That was enough. Wasn't it?

"Hey . . . Niisama?" Mokuba began, after Seto had finished cooking and had sat down across from him to eat. Seto hummed inquisitively, raising an eyebrow. The young Kaiba lifted up his own locket from beneath his shirt, revealing the small Egyptian pendant that had joined it. "Yugi gave this to my last night . . . didn't he?"

Seto nodded. "He did."

". . . How come?"

Seto's eyes narrowed. He chewed a small morsel of toast slowly, meditatively, before he finally answered: "Good luck, I would assume. He said that the goddess would protect you. Knowing Mutou, he actually believes that." Seto gave off a derisive scoff that _almost _sounded natural.

Mokuba looked at the tiny bronze figure. "Isis. The goddess of motherhood."

"Auset," Seto murmured, almost like he didn't know that he was talking. "Sister, and wife, of Asar . . . lord and protector of the dead."

"Asar?" Mokuba echoed.

"Osiris," Seto said.

"Oh."

Seto drank from a mug of tea at his left hand and said, "Superstitious tripe or not, that necklace is an artifact. I've no doubt it's authentic. I expect you to thank Mutou properly for giving it to you."

Mokuba nodded. "Yes, Niisama."


	10. Of Love and Last Resorts

_**This isn't a finale, but it's what I have written so far. I'm going to need time to put together any new sections for this story. I wrote the first draft to this a long time ago, longer than I would like to admit. What you're seeing is a revamped draft.**_

_**Anything else for this story will have to be built from the ground up. So it'll take a little while. So, for now, thank you very much for giving this one a shot. I had fun working from a different perspective, even though my usual basis of "torture the Kaibas so they love each other even more" still shines through.**_

_**I'm . . . predictable that way, I suppose.**_

**_I hope that I may be forgiven._**

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**.**

* * *

The rest of the day went by peacefully.

Mokuba reveled in the fact that he wouldn't have to return to school for two months. Seto went about his usual practices as if nothing at all were amiss. He was able to keep his brother from noticing anything in particular, except perhaps the fact that spending so much time without proper rest _was _beginning to wear on him.

Not that that was uncommon.

Seto made sure to take the letter from his pocket and slip it into a small safe in his office. He hoped against hope that he would never have to take it out. He couldn't delude himself for long, however. If Yugi was right in assuming that Ryou Bakura was the danger here, then eventually Seto would have to tell Mokuba about it. That letter could very well prove to be a vital piece of evidence.

Seto felt a sudden, blinding anger at Ryou for daring to let Mokuba think they might be friends, only to pull a stunt like _this_. But Seto knew that this wasn't fair as soon as he thought it. Ryou was ill, under the sway of a disorder that was no more his fault than his hair color. For all Seto knew, it was only _because _of Mokuba's friendship that he'd managed to hold out this long without . . . without . . . what? Shifting? Devolving? _Becoming_?

Seto wasn't sure what to call it; but whatever it was, he didn't like it.

The elder Kaiba made sure not to stay in any one place, doing any one thing, for too long. He cleaned, checked with the house staff—particularly the security team—he tested a scenario for one of his newer personal projects. Seto knew that, if he let himself go idle at any point, exhaustion would finally take control. Never mind the dark, foreign thoughts that kept weeding their way into him whenever he thought about the impossible events from the morning.

Seto even sifted through his dueling deck for the first time in months.

Night eventually fell, and Seto realized that he no longer had a choice in the matter: he had to sleep. He showered, dressed in a set of dark blue pajamas and a midnight-black robe, and sat on the edge of his bed for nearly twenty minutes before coming to a decision. He stood, walked through the hallway, down the stairs to the ground floor, and eventually found his brother in the game room, playing a racing simulator—Mokuba often specified this term, _racing simulator_, whenever he talked about this particular genre—and listening to music. It sounded like the same band he'd had playing in the bathroom.

Seto checked his watch. 11:30 PM.

"_Karasu_," Seto murmured under his breath. Then he said, slightly louder: "Stereo, volume, fifteen percent."

Mokuba turned to look over his shoulder as the music turned itself down. He grinned. "You did that Bluetooth thing again, didn't you?" Seto smirked, but didn't answer. "That's _so _cool. You need to figure out a way to let _me _control everything in the house without going to the dentist. I don't want a filling."

Seto shrugged. "Simply a matter of convenience. You could use a _conventional _microphone like a _peasant _if you want." Mokuba stuck out his tongue. "For now, though, it's getting late. Come on, kiddo. Turn this off. I know, I know. It's vacation. But you're _not _turning nocturnal."

Mokuba pouted.

"PlayStation 3—off; television—off; stereo—off," Seto said with quiet finality.

The three devices did as commanded.

"Show—off," Mokuba muttered.

"Let's go, kid. You'll have plenty of time to play tomorrow."

"_Fine_."

"Light—off," Seto said, as they left the room. He shut the door behind him. "_Karasu_," he said a second time, deactivating the tiny device nestled in the back of his mouth. The two brothers climbed the stairs to the second floor, Seto leading. Mokuba made to enter his bedroom. He'd already opened the door and was slipping inside when Seto called his name.

The boy turned. "Huh?"

". . . Come with me," Seto said. "Please."

Mokuba tilted his head, confused.

"Hectic weekend, capped off by a bad night," Seto said, heaving a sigh. "I've had a headache for the past three hours." He held up a hand. "I know. I know. I should have slept _last _night. You don't need to remind me, _Sensei_. But . . . I would appreciate it. If you were . . . close by."

Something pounded behind Seto's eyes, and he wondered if it was his own brain telling him how patently, ridiculously pathetic he sounded.

Mokuba opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to say that their rooms were only separated by about thirty feet of carpet, but he stopped. There must have been something on Seto's face that Mokuba could read, because he smiled and gave a nod. "'Kay," he said. He went into his room, and came back out dressed for bed in light grey sweatpants and a t-shirt two sizes too big for him. He followed Seto.

Mokuba clambered into his brother's bed as Seto made his final check of the night. He went into his office, checked the safe, glared at the crumpled envelope and its haunted junk mail.

Seto slipped under the covers beside his brother. He lay on one side, left arm folded under his head with his hand beneath the pillow. Mokuba huddled in close, and Seto lay his free arm over the boy's shoulders. "Good night, Mokuba."

"G'night, Niisama," Mokuba said. "I love you."

Seto kissed his brother's forehead. "I love you, too."

They slept.

Even though it was only inches from his head, Mokuba had no idea that, beneath the pillow they were sharing, Seto kept a good-luck talisman of his own, far more macabre than the tiny bronze likeness of Auset—wife of Asar—that lay against Mokuba's heart.

Clutched in Seto's left hand was the cold, heavy handle of a Sig Sauer pistol.

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**.**

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_**"Karasu" is the Japanese term for a crow/raven. It also happens to contain the first syllable of each of my three names, as they would be rendered in Japanese—ka, ra, and su. Not the right order, but . . . details.  
**_

_**I'm kind of a nerd about this stuff. Maybe you figured that out already?**_


End file.
